


Rat King

by spacejargon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Graphic Description, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 00:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19860511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejargon/pseuds/spacejargon
Summary: On a night out to get away from the stresses of camp, Arthur sets out to clear his head. Company comes with a calling card and a high price on his head.





	Rat King

The sun isn’t even on the horizon when Arthur saddles up and decides he could use some time away from camp.

It’s hanging low, like the sag of jeans without a belt slung on his hips and cocked on his holster hanging from his hip. Still, it’s no less humid and bright out, with the swampy humidity that Lemoyne has to offer. The air is soup for as long as Arthur _exists,_ sun up or down, and it’s comparable to Pearson’s stew in thickness.

Shirt collar sticking to the back of his neck, Arthur tips his hat low over his eyes as he rides out from the protective cover of brushland. As soon as he hits the red-tinted trail, he turns west and starts riding.

For once, his thoughts don’t bother him while he rides. There’s only the echo of silence in Arthur’s empty head, thumping against the confines of his skull. He feels a buzzing just underneath the skin that turns into a dull hum and gets louder until he reaches the New Hanover border. When he does hit the border, crossing the welcome sign there, the buzz turns into an itch. Then it burrows in the back of his mind, needling its way there until Arthur can’t make a point to ignore it.

The air starts to cool down when he hits the plains. Doesn’t feel breathable until he passes by Emmet Granger’s old place and the evening hours are coming around the corner. If he checks his pocket watch it will tell him it’s no later than seven. Two hours of daylight to spare ‘til the sun sets below the Grizzlies.

By the time he reaches old familiar ground the sun’s just barely grazing the peaks of the ride without a jacket. It’s been enough time going without it that pulling it on would feel like wearing new jewelry: clunky and just noticeable enough to distract him.

Blue, his mahogany bay stallion, keeps up the pace with ease. He perks up with the change in weather and familiar scenery, making a whicker or huff as they get closer to an old habit. Like taking the high road instead of hugging the trail along the Dakota, preferring to make ground past Flatneck Station and count the endless sleeper boards of the train tracks until he can lull his mind into a tamed quiet.

No one’s out at this hour. Flatneck, as it comes and goes, is deserted. The train doesn’t run at this time, not due for another half an hour as far as Arthur remembers. He’s sure that if he looks there might be a few ghosts haunting the place, but no one ever really comes out this far.

The swath of forest growing into something sturdy to his left beckons to him. When he closes his eyes and lets Blue lead, he can remember the ins and outs of this place. Knows the path back to Horseshoe Overlook like the pattern of veins on the back of his hand. Blue knows it too, paying no mind when the reins in Arthur’s hand fall slack and he trots along.

Finagling at the back corner of his mind, the unease still lingers. He blames it on the stress of the day, of listening to Dutch talk about Arthur like he’s not standing right there. The slightly queasy feeling in his stomach from a particularly rough batch of stew with meat Charles himself couldn’t identify and Javier had to down three shots just to manage a mouthful.

It’s not Pearson’s fault, or anyone else’s. Stress has been at an all-time high around camp with good reason. The most recent chase from the Pinkertons has Dutch saying things—admittedly _awful,_ but still can’t be helped, even by the sanest man there is. All this stress means less time spent to things that aren’t as important, like hunting for edible meat and finding vegetables that don’t come from a can to slip into a pot. A luxury like seasoning is a dream only tangible in smoke clouds.

So is sleeping, with air so thick the butcher’s cleaver at Pearson’s wagon won’t cut it. Mosquitoes move in clouds like biblical omens, just as nasty and parasitic. Then at night there’s the screaming of frogs, toads, and the occasional deer with the hellish snarl of javelinas running amuck.

Arthur isn’t one to stay in one place long. Too many people—much as he loves them, even if they test his patience to its very limit—and not enough movement means he’s restless. Hell, even though they’re still fresh in Clemens Point Arthur doesn’t feel like he’s moved much at all. Wading around camp feels like the swamps he’s toured in Bayou NWA, courtesy of a few trips into Saint Denis.

But sometimes tensions run high in camp and conversations quickly turn into the hiss and snap of swamp alligators impersonating family members dressed too warm for the swamp.

Maybe it’s to hide their scales, he muses.

His mind drifts away from his thoughts when Blue snorts, pushing past trees they’ve wandered into away from the railroad tracks. He finds the dirt path leading the way to the old campsite and follows it by memory, leaving Arthur to take in how little things have changed, despite the place looking completely foreign.

Blue slows to a stop where the hitching post used to be. Obedient as always, he squirms when a buck raises its head, a doe behind it, and then they bolt with a mad dash into the trees. Arthur doesn’t bother thinking of hitching him up, sliding from the saddle with the prickle in the back of his mind jolting from his feet as soon as they hit the ground.

His focus is too sharp. The scenery Horseshoe Overlook provides has always soothed all the rough and jagged edges of him, but tonight he finds himself leaving Blue intact, patting his satchel in a blind motion. His eyes dart, finding nothing but a few scraps of old cans and impressions still left in the grass where people once were. Nothing is out of the ordinary.

Arthur takes a deep breath, forgoing his pocket watch to head over to the cliffside. In the corners of his eyes he sees John’s tent pitched, his own wagon just off to the side, passing around the invisible tent belonging to Dutch as he makes his way over. Muscle memory won’t let him forget, let alone rest when his eyes move to the stump scarred with axe wounds.

Twigs break under his feet when he’s greeted by the sight of the valley stretched before him. The Grizzlies, beautiful and snow-capped, stand like rugged beacons glittering with fading sunlight. Clouds in the darkening sky drift in lazy puffs of white, dappled by pink and gold and deeper shades of blue as the sun makes its descent.

A sudden breeze registers as a chill. Maybe he is getting old.

There’s no time to take a careful seat on the rocky edge and gaze out over the beauty of the world around him. Sure, he’ll plan mindlessly to get some hunting and bring back what’s worth the price of his absence. Like he always does on trips like this, able to refresh himself with enough alone time to stop thinking.

_Click._

Of a bullet loading into the chamber at the back of his head.

His hand immediately darts for his hip—rewarded by the press of a muzzle of a small caliber pistol against his skull.

“There’s a five-thousand-dollar bounty on your head, Arthur Morgan.”

His hands still. His heart throbs a low, stumbling pound. “Thought you morons already mentioned it,” he bites out, thoughts racing when he can’t remember what those agents sounded like. What were their names?

“You go around offerin’ yourself to any fool lookin’ to collect now?” the man grunts, keeping the gun trained on Arthur. “Didn’t think you was that stupid, since you been hidin’ for a good long while.”

His fingers itch for a gun. His other heavy weapons are on Blue still, but if he can just manage to reach his hip, then maybe—

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” the bounty hunter snaps, growing impatient. “I know you’re itchin’ to get your pound of flesh outta me, Morgan. Ain’t gonna happen today. ‘specially if you think I’m dumb enough to let you get the jump on me.”

“Well, I ain’t got no brains but even fools got the sense not to sneak up on bad men.” Despite the gun trained on him and willing to smash a window in his skull, Arthur is calm. Shallow breaths rise and fall from him, still as stone throughout the odd, shivering trickle that leeches down his spine. “How do you want to die?”

The bounty hunter sneers with a cackle. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Morgan. You honestly think I’m out here with nothin’ but my wits and hopin’ my hand’s fast enough? Let me make it a little clearer for you, ‘cause I don’t think you understand where I’m comin’ from.” The bounty man shifts closer, his boots crunching in the grass and gravel behind Arthur. “Y’see, this can end one of two ways. You get on your knees and do what I say, maybe even put up a little show to make it worthwhile, _or_ you can fight me and slip away and bet my other men won’t find you. But either way, Morgan, it won’t end well for you or the rest of your rat’s nest.”

The words freeze in the midst of a breath catching in Arthur’s throat. A leg knocks against his heel, threatening to topple him. “You must be getting sloppy if you let me follow you from Clemens Point to here. But you are a creature of habit, along with whatever the hell you are.”

The bounty hunter is nearly twice Arthur’s size and stands a good head taller than him. Not to mention the cruel laugh that brushes against Arthur’s ear made of condescension from taller peaks. He is a sizable opponent, and Arthur knows he won’t have his weight to throw for an advantage this time around.

“So, let me give you your options. Put your hands up and come with a little fuss, or watch the rest of the thieves, whores, liars, and murderers you warm the bed for take on the Pinkertons. Either way, I’m still getting paid.” The blasé snarl digs in deeper than the bounty hunter intended. “I’m happy just getting the price for you. The rest of them ain’t worth as much, unless you count Dutch van der Linde and that conman of his, Matthews.”

Options weigh heavily on his mind, but decisions must always be made before the thunder can catch up. Lightning fast as it is when Arthur decides not to press his luck and raises his hands. Ignoring the itch he has won’t do him any good, but the fact that it distracts him from paying full attention makes him even more unsteady.

A fist of meaty fingers seizes Arthur’s wrists and yanks them behind his back. “Hold still,” the bounty hunter grunts as he deftly ties Arthur’s hands with only one hand, keeping the gun pointed at him.

Experienced fellow, then. Knows how to handle himself around worse types than thieves, degenerates, and whores. Even whores can get nasty, from what Arthur’s witnessed, but this fool is pressing his luck knowing he’s got a winning pair in his hand.

A boot solidly connects with the back of Arthur’s knees and he’s suddenly eating dirt. His face pushed into the ground, the gun at his head disappears in favor of a knee digging into his spine and rope coming around his throat and looping down to his bound hands.

Another coil snakes around his gut with the burn of rope as it sluices over his insides. Everything about this screams with an air of _wrong_ to it but he can’t focus long enough to know what it is. His brain is too frazzled and too crossed for wires to pin down one thought when the rope around his throat tightens into a noose.

A hand he can’t see plucks at the rope tied to his throat. As soon as it does the noose tightens and Arthur chokes, cut off from a breath smeared in dirt. The bounty hunter leans over, pressing his weight into Arthur’s spine, and shadows over him to block out the rays of the setting sun.

“Here’s how it’s going to go, _cowboy._ This ain’t my first rodeo, and it won’t be my last. Might be yours,” thick fingers seize his chin and wrench Arthur’s head to meet the bounty hunter’s as soon as the knee on his back leaves him. “If you don’t behave. I know you’re feral, but you ain’t as dumb as all that. Don’t matter to me none if you are, but it will to you.”

Arthur squeezes his fingers, the angle his head’s at putting pressure on the rope around his throat. He chokes on each breath, lightheaded by the time he meets the bounty hunter’s dark eyes.

“I bring in all kinds of folk, usually the ones they want dead or alive. Now I ain’t one to discriminate, but I got standards,” he tuts, the sharpness to his gaze a blaring warning resounding in Arthur’s ears. “If there’s a little more for bringin’ folk in alive, then maybe I’ll bite. Otherwise, it’s usually gonna end with my pockets heavier than before we met. Though I can say your type’s the best when it comes to not squealin’ like a stuck pig.”

The meaning slowly comes into existence as the bounty hunter’s lips split into a haunting grin of yellowed teeth stained by booze and tobacco. “Women, they don’t get much of a choice. Don’t see much of ‘em but I don’t want no junior running around before she hangs. It doesn’t look real nice in my profession.” Then he turns his attention directly to Arthur, no longer speaking in a reminiscing tone. “Men though, they never squeal. And if they think of it, I just remind ‘em that the only thing people love more than a hanging is seeing an invert hang in front of God and everybody.”

Dread creeps into Arthur’s stomach. “The fuck’s wrong with you—”

The rope tugs. He gags, throat suddenly dry and a dizzy rush swelling behind his eyes. When the air slowly trickles back into his lungs the bounty hunter’s still there, still watching with fingers wrapped around his throat, retracting his other hand from behind Arthur’s back.

“The way I see it, I’m doing you a favor. You and your posse ain’t dead yet, Morgan,” the bounty hunter flexes his fingers with a hiss. “Don’t make this hard.” He withdraws his fingers and lets Arthur flop forward to the ground to reacquaint himself with the taste of disgust.

It tastes like dirt.

Then the bounty man moves, the hulking man that could hold a candle to the mountain that is Charles. He moves from a squat to his boots crunching behind Arthur, hauling him up by his wrists. Though as soon as Arthur’s scrambling to his feet, thoughts moving a thousand miles a minute, he’s shoved backward and skitters dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

His captor sneers from behind him, letting Arthur hang with one hand on his wrists and the other wrapping around the holster on his hip.

“On your knees, Morgan.” Then he’s yanked back again, where he stumbles for balance but doesn’t ultimately end up falling to his death. His revolver falls free when the buckle clasp is undone, thrown off somewhere with the metal striking against the boulder it lands against with a screech.

He’s on his knees and feeling the grittiness in his throat from dirt and rope burns when he has the means to look the bounty hunter in his unabashed eyes and glare. “What the _hell’s_ wrong with you?”

The nasty spit of words draws him close. Close enough to see the glint of metal from a knife hanging off the man’s belt, along with a gun at his hip. When his stomach is nearly level with Arthur’s head, Arthur throws himself backward and kicks out at the bounty hunter’s legs while his hat tumbles off his head. He hits and sends the man stumbling back, but the man isn’t as big and thick for show as he is much sturdier than Arthur is when he doesn’t do more than brush off the assault.

Arthur lands on his stomach, twisting and turning to wriggle out of the ropes. Sure enough when his hands jerk the rope around his throat tightens to a choking degree that leaves him breathless. He strikes blindly, kicking where he can when the bounty hunter descends upon him when he can’t right himself onto his feet.

One boot finds purchase and he moves to pull himself up. He’s almost got a leg up until a hand wraps around his ankle and tugs him down with a resounding click of his jaw snapping shut and rattling his skull.

“I said _on your knees,_ Morgan,” the now much less patient man looms over Arthur, shoving him onto his knees as he handles Arthur like a rag doll. Once he’s there the hand on his shoulder remains firm, digging into the meat of it with a painful degree.

The man’s eyes move to the exposed view of Arthur’s chest, where a few more buttons have popped off in the struggle. Scrapes ooze little blood and mingle with the dirt there, but ultimately it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. Instead, his lips split with a gnarled smile and the grip on his shoulder becomes bruising.

“I like a little bit of fight,” he coos mockingly, meeting the hard set of Arthur’s bruising jaw. “Shows some spirit. Can’t get nothin’ like it nowhere else.”

“So throw me on the back of your damn ox, or whatever’s big enough to carry you and be done with it,” Arthur growls, feeling the growing chill of the approaching night as the sun sinks lower and lower. “Odds are you ain’t the only one lookin’ for me. No time for games, you sick bastard.”

Those callused fingers seize Arthur’s chin once again. The motion makes him jerk, inadvertently strangling himself again. “No, I don’t think I will,” he says, reaching for something from his pocket. Arthur’s eyes dart to his hand that disappears but he refocuses on the man, meeting the cock-eyed snarl of lips and venomous delight in the other man’s gaze. “I don’t think you wanna see what’s left of your horse just yet, might make you too feisty.”

“You son of a bitch, you touch him and I’ll—” Arthur snaps, his voice rising as he hears a whinny he can’t decipher in the distance, growing further away. The fingers around his jaw squeeze and a kick connects with his shin, driving him forward as he curls in on himself.

When he’s tugged back upright, forced to sit on his legs, he catches the sound of a belt clinking and falling loose. He comes face to face with the button on the man’s pants coming undone and the pistol back on him, just above his eyes.

The bounty hunter’s other hand fishes into his drawers and pulls out his thickening length, the head glistening with a bead of clear fluid as he strokes himself once and then twice. The stench of unwashed musk hits Arthur with a gagging quality, rotting in his nose as he struggles to take a ragged breath.

“You know what to do, boy.” The sharp snap makes Arthur’s stomach churn violently. Pearson’s stew settles uneasily, rising and falling like the waves in a blackened sea. “No teeth.”

Arthur wonders if biting the bullet is worth it. He seriously considers it, though the thought doesn’t last long as he forgets to tense his arms, letting them relax and gag him once again. He coughs, spitting and choking, and fixes the bounty hunter with a withering glare.

“I said _suck,_ boy,” the man warns, shoving his hardened cock into Arthur’s face. The head brushes up against his lips and Arthur resists the urge to gag right then and there, unable to turn his head away much as fluid smears from his lip to his cheek.

The pistol reloads. “Get to it.” Then the butt of the gun comes crashing down against Arthur’s temple, striking him with a solid slam.

“Go to hell!” Arthur snarls low and angry, uncaring of whether or not that bullet loaded into the chamber is going to be the last he’ll ever bite. His skull pounds and aches, blood trickling down the side of his head as the bounty man stares down, uncaring when he pistons his hips forward more insistently this time.

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

Arthur grits his teeth and bares them. “I ain’t doin’ _shit_!”

The pistol disappears and is replaced by fingers digging into the sides of his cheeks, squeezing tight enough to break bone if prompted. Arthur fights it, wrenching his head away as a distorted growl comes from him, only to be met with his head jerked forward and the taste of salt and flesh on his tongue.

“If I feel you even _thinkin’_ of bitin’ me, I’ll break out your teeth.” He taps against Arthur’s cheek for effect as his hand curls there. “Every one that don’t fall outta ya, I’ll pull it out. Got it?”

The bounty man laughs low and deep in his chest when he thrusts forward, sinking into Arthur’s mouth until the head hits the back of his throat. Arthur chokes on a cough, tears burning in his eyes when he’s suddenly robbed of air and a jolt quickens under his skin, the insistent press of a muzzle against his aching temple reminding him not to bite down.

The bounty hunter lets up but doesn’t let himself slip free from Arthur’s mouth. He glares down at Arthur, viciously pleased. With the sight of Arthur gagging on him he laughs, grinning wolfishly, and coos with a sickening laugh.

“What? It ain’t gonna suck itself, cowboy.” Then he suddenly gets a strange gleam in his eyes, darkened by the fading sun. He pulls out, letting his stiff erection fall from Arthur’s spit-slicked lips and then pulls the gun from Arthur’s head and aims at his shoulder.

The searing pain that surges from Arthur, along with a strangled yelp follows the explosion that rings in Arthur’s ears. Fire burns hot and bright in Arthur’s shoulder as he recoils, only to near the verge of strangling himself when he tenses and seethes in white-hot agony.

Blood blooms from his shoulder as the smell of it and burned flesh mixed with gunpowder sizzle in his shoulder. The hand on his face doesn’t leave, forcing fingers into his mouth before the stiff, ugly flesh of the man’s erection returns and eases itself between his lips.

The bounty hunter’s laughter echoes in Arthur’s ears. He tastes sour and bitter, like unwashed piss and the taste of bitter precome. Gritty dirt sinks into his tongue and coats his teeth like snuff. Still, his jaw remains stretched around the bounty hunter and if there was a God, then he’s a vengeful bastard.

“Pretty lips, almost like a woman.” Fingers mockingly caress the side of his jaw as Arthur swallows down the rest of the foul, ugly rage that coils in his stomach. The noose around his throat makes him tighten around the bounty hunter, earning a disgustingly pitiful moan. “Put some tongue into it, will ya? You don’t gotta look like you ain’t enjoyin’ it, filthy invert.”

And then Arthur’s gagging, again, on bitterness and sandpaper that coats his tongue mercilessly. The unwashed reek from the man, emanating from the dark curls of hair from just within reach fill Arthur with a desperate urge to vomit. He tries, fails, and ultimately feels spit and fluid drip down his chin as the man thrusts into his mouth and fucks him like a whore.

Each brush of skin against teeth pulses through Arthur with a shiver of disgust. _Shame_ finds its way to slither inside of him, curling around his throat as the ropes tighten with each thrust and release like squeezing his heart in a vice grip. Forever passes in a lifetime and this nightmare still hasn’t ended.

The thrusts deepen, taking him nearly to the root where Arthur’s nose brushes against unwashed curly hairs and tries to hold his breath. His mind remains abuzz with too many thoughts, all of them wild and untamed as a shudder starts in his legs and clenches at his stomach.

The man’s groans and uneven pants still register in his ears with the slide of skin and grit over Arthur’s tongue. The reality is what twists the knife in his gut deeper, more so than the bullet lodged in his shoulder as he bleeds out all over himself. Though the bounty hunter doesn’t seem to care all that much, far more focused on the taunts and insults that slip between every few breaths.

It’s a strange sensation not worth reliving, to be choking on every breath. If he moves he’ll choke, but the constant thrusts that grow faster keep him on the verge of gagging. His arms shake as the tears burning in his eyes gather and fall, trailing down the sides of his cheeks while he hears a muffled laugh from above him.

There’s pain, pain, blistering pain—the thrusts lay heavy on his tongue, quick and deep until the man above him is groaning, digging his fingers into Arthur’s wounded shoulder when he comes, slamming himself into Arthur’s mouth and ignoring the wounded noise that results.

There’s nothing but pure hatred that meets Arthur’s eyes when a hand slaps over his mouth and nose, slick with Arthur’s blood. “You better swallow, cowboy,” he threatens, menacing over him while his hand presses tightly and refuses to let Arthur spit. As if he knows how badly he tastes, bitter and salty and coating Arthur’s tongue with his own filth.

Just to prove a point, he tips Arthur’s head back and watches as the rope tightens into a noose. Arthur chokes with a muffled sound, quickly growing dizzy as he either chooses to die by suffocation or the pounding of his heart threatening to impale itself on his ribs.

He chokes down the bitterness when his lungs are screaming. It’s not enough to get the taste off his tongue, of this bastard’s spend, coating him like a thick wax. Like a seal of a brand to show off just how he owns Arthur in this moment, with the threat of the lives of the others hanging over his head.

The hand moves to grip his jaw. “Open up,” he instructs, lips curling into a sneer as Arthur does and he seizes his tongue. He tugs it loose with a sharp yank, inspecting the white film on Arthur’s tongue with a sadistic satisfaction.

The sun is setting, Arthur registers this dimly in the back of his head. From all the warning and horror blaring in his head he remembers the sun’s just about gone, and the night’s chill will sweep in soon enough.

But the bounty hunter is still hard, he realizes, and there is a cruelness to his eyes.

“What, you think I was done with ya?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a glass bottle as Arthur starts to struggle once again, panic shifting in his veins. “You thought I was just gonna use your mouth and be done with ya?”

“No, no, no—!” Arthur fights tooth and nail, helpless when a hand pries open his mouth again, fingers digging into his gums. “Stop it! Get offa me!” Another holds the bottle to his lips, popping off the cork with a precarious swipe of a thumbnail and tipping it forward.

This stuff is even more bitter than the last. Viscous and thick it flows over his tongue and seeps through his clenched teeth. He spits and hisses like a rattler that’s been trampled by a draft horse, clinging to what little resources he has that fade as soon as the bitter liquid hits his tongue and he’s thrust back into the horrors of what has just happened to him.

But the bounty man doesn’t stop. He laughs with a terrible sound and doesn’t stop cackling when he shoves the bottle into Arthur’s mouth and damn near forces it down his throat. He watches through Arthur’s struggle not to choke, his bruised throat moving in gut-wrenching swallows as the muscles rub and burn with the heavy syrup sinking into the pits of his belly.

Darkness falls over the heartlands in one motion. In one blink the sun sinks low, fading beyond where Arthur can see. When he opens his eyes, the world is dark and cast in shadow.

Poison seeps through his veins with a sluggishness left in its wake. The bitter taste of opium rivals that of the man’s spend seared into Arthur’s memory. Both settle in his stomach with as much grace as a house on fire, bleeding into him.

His head’s swimming and numb when he lands on his stomach. Rocks dig into his shoulder and he cries out, the sound falling on deaf ears. Dirt smears against him like he’s the stain of the earth itself.

Arthur slumps in the dirt, dimly aware with attention that’s fading fast of how if he relaxes he’ll die. Which is a more comforting thought than the hands on his hips that reach for his belt, throwing away his gun belt and ripping off his satchel to be discarded in the woods.

Filthy hands rip his pants down. They crawl up his quivering stomach that turns with unrest and rip open his shirt. The blue stained fabric flutters loosely over his back when his pants rip under the pressure of a knife that digs into his hipbones.

“Damn queer, ain’t no better than at the end of a rope.” Words hang above Arthur’s head and slowly drip to his ears. The world is fuzzy and pained and too unsteady to find purchase in. “You’re a sick freak and I’m doin’ the world a favor.”

His knees are shoved under him as his pants peel off, the fabric of his union suit ripped free and cut away. “No, no, no…” is the sound of pity in his voice, too soft and too sour to be anything but a pathetic whimper mixed in the dirt. “Stop, geddoff—”

“Quit your moanin’, you sound like a bitch in heat.” The sneer of disgust from the bounty hunter would be ironic, if Arthur could focus for more than a second. Hands grab at his ass and press bruises into the flesh. When they peel away Arthur thinks he’s knocked himself cold, only to be reawaken by slick fingers oozing over pale flesh.

“Jus’ kill me, goddammit!” he scrounges up every last bit of hatred he’s ever felt, wriggling in his restraints. He doesn’t care for the bullet in his head or what the consequences are if he doesn’t suffer through. He doesn’t _care_ that he underestimated a threat bigger than it is. “Shoot me! Damn me to hell, just do it!”

“Oh, I will,” the bounty hunter’s voice slithers into his ears and curls up there. “But not ‘til I’m done with you and your rat pack, Morgan.”

Then there’s something sliding inside of him and it’s pure agony. Hellfire races up his spine and he yowls like a bobcat shot between the eyes. Half mad, he reckons, when hips press up against him and he can feel the heat emanating from the slicked cock lining up against him while fingers tear him open.

Violent shudders threaten to break Arthur apart. Pain courses through him with the same thick headiness as the revolting filth mixed with opium in his stomach. The press of his belt against his knees that digs into his flesh keeps him there, focused on the pain that rips through him like a fissure and leaves him carved out like the inside of his soul.

_He’s a bad man._

“Fuck, you’re so goddamn _tight_ —” is the only warning he gets, feeling the brush of a head against him and every last instinct tells Arthur to _run._ Then the bounty hunter pushes himself inside of him, thrusting deep to the hilt in a constant, unrelenting motion.

The scream that tears free rattles the trees. It echoes, filthy and blind, to the depths of the valley and the bowels of the cesspool the bounty man crawled out of.

Pried open and drugged as he is, the sting is one of the worst pains imaginable. _The_ worst, which is more than likely save for the heavy blanket of numb that tides Arthur down and keeps him from ripping himself in two. Or better yet, decapitating himself with his own noose. Though the opium sloshing around the painted walls of his gut does nothing when the bounty man starts to move.

The dirt beneath him becomes an endless black. Broken groans and greedy breaths fall to the background noise that fills in the static buzz between his ears. Blood seeps into the wet earth and makes a paste of mud, caking against his shoulder and the rest of him.

Broken. Broken like a seal that’s been ripped clean off and left with pieces behind. Like digging out a cork and breaking the neck of the bottle to slash against his face for daring to be in the wrong place, wrong time. The sound he makes, be it a whimper, whine, or a curdled scream, is broken.

His teeth gnash and drool coats in between them and dribbles down his split lip and scabbed chin. Bile slips up his throat and filters through his mouth and nose, running like molten metal over his burning skin quickly cooling in the young evening air.

The bounty hunter keeps one hand shoving Arthur’s face in the dirt, fisted in his hair, while the other holds him steady. Steady enough to lose himself in the perverse pleasure that is violating a man for his sins, though it’s not likely that it’s the reason for his madness. No, there is no loss of control. Only gain.

He pumps into Arthur with a feverish pace that lasts too long. Every second is too long and every moment is stretched to years. The end of his life seems all too apparent and the end must be nigh, going by the straining groans of the bounty man when his hips slam ruthlessly against Arthur’s.

He breaks with fresh bruises littered down Arthur’s spine and hips. Hisses in grunts and groans against Arthur and doesn’t dare let his hand wander between Arthur’s hips. Shame can only lie there as blood pounds loosely through him, planted in there after gouging out what he could manage before laying bare to his own filth.

The bounty man comes with a gasp and a few resounding thrusts that bruise and sting like a whip peeling off strips of flesh. His groans tear straight through the muscle and cut to the bone to leave their mark that will never wash off. It carves deep, intricate designs that loosely spell the things he’s done, the things he deserves—this is one of them.

Finally, _finally,_ he leaves Arthur shaking in a miserable slump. Pulls out of him with a spent dick and a laugh bubbling up from the deep of his throat and ringing in his nose. Takes in the sight of Arthur, his hands falling free from him to admire what all he’s done and swell with pride for it.

The opium sits heavily in his bloodstream like a bad batch of moonshine tears through his liver. Sluggish and weak, Arthur counts his breaths and the spaces in between when his body decides to move on its own. Slowly, then all at once.

He rears up and doesn’t fight when the bounty man tucks himself back into his pants and hauls him over on his back. The pressure is immediate and intense as Arthur starts to struggle, like one of the many nightmares of hanging by a hangman’s noose coming to life.

The bounty man smiles with a wry slip of lips and stares down at Arthur. In his hand is the glint of metal, the same that chased cuts into Arthur’s skin in tearing through the clothes he has. He doesn’t have the decency to cover Arthur up, enjoying when he looks down and takes Arthur in one hand and holds the knife in the other.

The tip of the blade presses against the shaft. “Gonna have my fun with you before I bust the rest of ya,” he crows, showing off his ugly yellow teeth with a flick of his forked tongue. “You ain’t a man, Morgan. Ain’t nothin’ more than a piece of meat. No better’n a whore.”

Arthur gasps in troubled bursts, vision curling around deepening spots of black. The noose is tight enough to break his neck if he moves, though he’s no longer afraid of much of anything.

His fingers twitch and move by memory. Air seeps from his lungs that burn and scream with the same hellfire coaxed from the pit of his stomach, giving all senses a fleeting, abandoned ignorance. His fingers pluck at rope and play it like a snake wrapped around him in a vice.

“When I’m done with ya, there ain’t gonna be _nothin’_ ,” he croons above Arthur, rat’s teeth and snake eyes. “You’re gonna be no better than the goddamn dirt it takes to bury you with, fucking _bitch_.”

The rope tugs loose and Arthur rebounds like a spring. Takes the chance in that his neck may snap to lunge forward and drive his entire weight into the bounty hunter. The world rushes by around him in shades of black, but no less ordinary than the hands wrapping around the bounty hunter’s throat.

Then the flash of silver breaks through and sinks deep into his gut. Arthur chokes, thrown aside, and scrabbles for something to grab. He manages to find the sharp edge of a stone when another jab of the knife that could cleanly break off in him sinks into his side. The gouge is jagged and shallow with how Arthur twists and writhes, clutched like the snake in the Garden of Eden as it wraps around the arm of sin.

Wrestling free is much harder than it sounds. The rock Arthur has in his fingers, clenched tightly as the only lifeline he has, smashes into the bounty hunter’s head. He doesn’t stop until it drops, blood coating the air and mingling with the smell of sex that coats Arthur’s insides. And when the knife does fall loose, even if only by a little, he grabs it and thrusts it deep into the bounty hunter’s chest.

“You fucking bastard!” the man screams, breathless, shoving Arthur away. He’s up on his feet, a shrill whistle signaling Arthur’s rapidly approaching end. The cavalry will come, and with it a large draft horse, an Ardennes, with a thunderous whinny.

He braces for it. Waits for the dogs and the bounty hunters whooping and hollering on their horses, all fleet-footed and strong. The knife is gone, and the rock has slipped away from him somewhere, but he doesn’t care.

He waits. Darkness swallows him before he gets the chance to face his accusers, of born and bred sin under the skin of God-fearing men.

Arthur, in a blessed moment of either divine retribution that doesn’t exist or plain miserable luck, hears the thundering of hooves, fading into the distance.

He rips at the rope left around his neck and clumsily tugs it free. The collar of death and torture burns too hot when not in use and it takes everything he has to throw it at the ground. Even more to roll over onto his back, breathing shallowly, and stop breathing.

Fate is unkind to the evils of this world. Which is how he waits, lying in the wastes of shame, disgust, and all other sins, through the careful, skittish approach of hooves.

A cold nose touches Arthur’s chest and pries his eyes open. It hovers over him, wet with blood, and breathes warm life into him.

Slowly, slowly, Arthur clamors to his feet. The first thing he does is turn and retch until he feels his intestines fall from his mouth. Pearson’s stew, opium, and _disgust_ paint the ground where he doesn’t dare look. Bile tints his boots and make him retch until nothing more will come up before the shaking finally subsides into just a fine tremor. He pulls his trousers as high as they’ll go, fastening them tight with his belt. From there he hobbles, using the sturdy body beside him to retrieve his things.

By the time he finds his revolver, deeply scratched from being thrown against the rock, it takes more than willpower to straighten himself upright. But he manages, with a nose in his back and blood smeared on Blue’s neck where a jagged cut breaks the beautiful cover of his coat.

Flesh hangs too, though Blue is already twitchy and shuddering when he waits patiently for Arthur to haul himself up and into the saddle. He shouts out, spooking the stallion, but isn’t bucked or thrown when he collapses forward and slumps over Blue’s neck, body tight and radiating with agony.

Anguish seizes him, smelling the blood dripping from Blue’s throat as he lies there, motionless, and Blue starts to move.

Thankfully, he doesn’t remember how long it takes to get back. His shirt is stuffed in holes that bleed and tied around his shoulder, ripped to shreds. His hat, nicked and covered in dirt, slumps over his eyes and blocks out the light of lanterns when he slips into Clemens Point.

His pocket watch, broken from the toss of his satchel, will tell him it’s beyond late, but the hands stopped working long ago. It ticks and hums, still counting though not being able to tell time.

When Arthur reaches the opening to camp, evaporating out of the trees like a forgotten phantom rising from a new mist, no one is there to greet him. The sounds and lights of the world are dulled and low, with the forgotten realization no one is coming for him.

Blue stops at the hitching post closest to the main campfire. A few souls are about, though they flicker through Arthur’s world like quiet, unseen shadows. They sit in the same sort of peace that dwells in Arthur’s blood but doesn’t touch the carved bone, content in the numb that fills the void.

He can feel it leaking out of him—down his thighs, dripping like sluice water. Robbed of any sense of self, if that can be called a treasure, and soaking into his saddle. He wants to set himself on fire because the stain won’t come out.

When he falls from his horse, yanking on the poor thing’s mane matted with blood, he murmurs an apology in his head. Words don’t come to mind as he presses his forehead against Blue’s weeping neck and breathes only by the second, too afraid to inhale any deeper.

Taima is one of the horses nearby that notices him. She flicks her tail, ears pinning as she steps away, smelling blood. Others nearby do the same and follow her lead, retreating to the quiet herd just beyond the few trees as the night drags on.

He wants to go to his tent, but he’s much too ruined to go there. Let alone the pain that spikes with every step, so there's no point dwelling on it. He wants to sit and feel warm, for once and if only once then it’s livable, because he’s nothing but chilled to the bone.

In his haze of numb he takes small, agonizing steps. Each one filled with a heart-clenching anguish that pries its needy fingers away when he realizes there’s no one awake at the campfire. A few snores, Lenny sleeping off to the side of Javier’s tent, but no one breaks the picture of peace.

When he reaches the log to sit on, he is too delicate and moves too gingerly. It still aches, deep within him, but it’s as far as he’ll go. Blue nickers lowly, pained, and goes ignored as the world around Arthur fades out.

He collapses, more or less, by the fire, and stares into the bright white flames that hug the logs. No one stirs at the sound that threatens to rise from his throat.

Slow and silent, Arthur stares into the flames. Blood oozes from him in all places, dripping against the ground from his reopened bullet wound where his shirt hasn’t been tied tight enough. The rags of it hang from him, though there’s nothing he can do about that.

Lenny murmurs in his sleep, going unnoticed. He must stir at the smell of blood, perhaps hearing the drip of it staining the wet ground as it clings to the soupy air. Javier twitches every now and then, with the keenness of a coyote that knows first blood when he smells it.

“Arthur…?” Lenny yawns, rising from his sleep to slowly shamble into sitting up. When he sees Arthur, Javier’s awake now too, just roused from the dregs of long forgotten sleep. “Arthur?”

Peace. It’s what the camp needs, after a long last couple of weeks draining them dry. Testing their patience, but they still manage just fine.

“Arthur, oh my—Christ! _Hosea!_ ”

Five thousand dollars on his head. “Arthur? Arthur, what the hell’s happened to you?” Javier might be worth half that, from his stories of home.

Hosea is quick to rouse with frightened hisses and Lenny shoving at his shoulder. He’s the only one in his tent, Bill and Charles out on guard duty with Sean and a few others. Hosea is up and squinting as he rubs sleep from his eyes, catches the blood glittering in the firelight, and moves like a fox.

“Arthur, dear boy, what happened to you?” Hosea is insistent, in his ear and lost in the buzz of opium. High as he is, he can touch the heavens and still feel cold.

Then Hosea’s wrinkled, gentle hand touches his shoulder, and everything goes cold.

Five thousand dollars, and Arthur’s sold them all on a bluff.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooner or later God'll cut you down.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
